Ortega seemed far less concerned to meet agents of the Inquisition than most. The two organisations had similar goals, in theory, but in practice the Inquisition’s presence usually spelt trouble for Adeptus Arbities. Silvana hoped that they would be able to cooperate here, it was always better to operate with the locals assent, if not their active participation.

Ortega drew up his visor to reveal hard dark eyes and features which might have been handsome if he weren’t so grim. At some point in the past he had caught a piece of shrapnel which drew a pale white line over his otherwise tanned skin. He regarded the symbol intently for several long moments.

“Come with me,” he directed.

Ortga led them down into the bowels of the building. At every turn they met arbites cluthing las rifles and riot guns and bedecked in body armor. These men had to be locals and many of them seemed a little uneasy with the level of hardware they were now handling.

“Your men are well armed Adept Ortega,” Silvana asked as they passed through a door flanked by two grim looking patrolmen. The stiffened as though about to go to attention but then thought the better of it. Ortega grunted what might have been a laugh.

“Why are my men so well armed you mean. What did you say your name was again Mistress...?” he responded bluntly.

“Silvana Euphrati,” she supplied. Ortega pressed an button and summoned a lift cage made of woven wire. It looked flimsy to Silvana but the arbite stepped in without hesitation and so the Inquisitorial party followed. Without direction the elevator began to decend.

“It is a war mistress Euphrati,” Ortega went on, responding to the original question. They rattled down several stories until the lift stopped at the opening to a short hallway. Medical doors, designed to prevent the spread of biohazards faced them. Ortega led the way, pushing through the doors without any kind of decontamination, proof that the facility wasn’t being used for its original intention. The temperature inside dropped by twenty degrees and Silvana’s breath steamed. A large room infront of them was separated into dozens of cubicles by hanging plastic sheeting. Each cubicle held a dead human body. Medicae technicians in white robes and wearing rubberized gloves moved around drawing phials of blood or dissecting the corpses in the familiar autopsy procedure. Picters on steel posts captured the grizzly work as organs were removed and weighed and wounds examined. The whole place reeked of formalin and the mostly obliterated traces of human waste and blood. Most of the bodies bore gun shots or las burns, though some had been killed by grenade blasts judging by the blow and bloodshot eyes.

“The lower levels are completely out of control, regardless of what the Governor and her pack of fools chooses to believe,” Ortega said, the thin sneer evident in his voice. He led them through the room to a side chamber in which a dozen corpses stood on examination benches. The Y shaped stitches that closed their chest cavities a clear sign that the autopsies had already been completed. All of the bodies were tattooed with a bewildering array of what Silvana assumed were ganger marks but each one of these bodies bore the unmistakable sigil. In some cases it was inked but in other cases it had clearly been burned, flesh puckered and distended at the edge of the marks distorting older tattoos.

“We took it for some sort of gang mark,” Ortega explained, as he picked up a pritned file from the end of one of the stretchers and leafed through it.

“Each one of these was bagged at a site of serious resistance, fight like frakkers I’m told, can't find any real connection between them, but it's been five generations since records down in the lower habs were worth a heretics damn.” He set the file down and looked up at the new comers.

“I’m sure you don’t hear this alot, but I’m damn happy the Ordos is taking an interest in this rat frak.”
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